


Out of space, out of time

by annascathach



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe, Books, China, Community: sshg_exchange, F/M, France (Country), Germany, Mongolia, Romance, Russia, Trains, Transsiberian Railway, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-28
Updated: 2013-09-28
Packaged: 2017-12-27 20:47:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/983427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annascathach/pseuds/annascathach
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Britain's witches and wizards are being burnt at the stake once more. Hermione Granger and Severus Snape, unlikely friends, decide to flee. They board a train, then another, for along the Transsiberian Railway, beyond the Ural mountains, there is hope.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [citrinestone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/citrinestone/gifts).



> Written for the 2012 SSHG Fic Exchange at Livejournal as a gift for citrinestone.
> 
> Thank you to the lovely citrinestone for a set of very inspiring prompts – I hope you'll appreciate this journey as much as the main characters did! Many thanks also go to everyone who encouraged me between train stations, most of all my brilliant beta-reader G., as well as the train ticket designer talesofsnape. And lastly, thank you to the mods for running this Exchange on the right track yet again and for putting up with all our questions about destination, prices and comfortable seats.
> 
> The original prompt by citrinestone is attached in the end notes to this story. For your reading pleasure, it is highly recommended that you listen to the music listed underneath each chapter title via the Youtube links!

  
_By a route obscure and lonely,_  
 _Haunted by ill angels only,_  
 _Where an Eidolon, named Night,_  
 _On a black throne reigns upright,_  
 _I have reached these lands but newly_  
 _From an ultimate dim Thule –_  
 _From a wild weird clime, that lieth, sublime,_  
 _Out of Space – out of Time._  
(Edgar Allan Poe, Dream-Land, 1844)

* * *

  
**Prologue: London**

_Coldplay – Viva la Vida  
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1bJMxhvVf0o_  


“It's no use,” Hermione Granger sighed. “We can keep running, forever possibly, but we'll always be running. They will _never_ leave us alone.”

“And here I was beginning to think they called you the cleverest witch of their generation for a reason. Those rumours are clearly unfounded, then. Of all the dim-witted, pessimistic outlooks on life, that is by far the worst I have ever had the displeasure to hear.”

“Of course _you_ would never have a pessimistic outlook on life, now, would you, professor Snape? Do you fail to realize the situation we're in?”

“Thank you for your consideration for an old man,” he drawled sarcastically. “As I so clearly fail to realize our situation, would you please enlighten me?”

“This is a catastrophe,” she sighed. “We've just boarded a train to Merlin knows where, we're running from everything, everybody, and all that simply because Muggles have somehow found out about magic.”

“Witch hunters are chasing us, as they have the rest of the magical population of Britain. Yes, I do realize that, Miss Granger. However, one would think you of all people would keep level-headed to analyse this situation correctly.”

He sat up a little straighter in his seat. 

“Let's start from the beginning. My name is Severus Tobias Snape, yours is Hermione Jean Granger. The train we're on is the Eurostar to Paris, where we will take the City Night Line train to Berlin and Warsaw. We have no choice, Miss Granger, we must either find a solution to our problem or face discovery by the Muggles.

“Of course,” he added, “feel free to turn yourself over to the witch hunters any time if travelling alongside me is such a nuisance.”

Hermione sighed and leaned back in her seat. It was going to be a long journey.


	2. From Paris to Berlin

_Schandmaul – Die Flucht  
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tHJt_NVrgbY _  


Early on Sunday morning, their train had left London. While Hermione spent most of the journey to Paris looking at the countryside flying by, Severus stoically looked down on his notes, murmuring to himself.

Sometime after ten, Hermione had fallen asleep, her head leaned on the window. It was only then that Severus allowed himself to look at her. 

_Summa summarum_ , she hadn't changed much. Hermione Granger was still very much the bushy-haired, brown-eyed girl he remembered from her Hogwarts days. Yet something seemed quite different. Where her shoulders had been hunched from carrying an excessively heavy book bag and the responsibility for the entire Wizarding world, her stride had become purposeful, confident and graceful. Severus truly hadn't been able to ignore that particular fact when they had met at London's Saint Pancras International station. 

In the end, he considered himself lucky to have been the correspondent of this lovely woman for more than fifteen years now.

When it had all begun, in a manner so innocent and inconspicuous that Severus himself couldn't have guessed at its future outcome, the Hogwarts potions professor had simply asked London's Wizarding library, _Merlin's_ , for an edition of an old potions text. The young librarian answering his request had not only sent him the requested scroll, but added a few recent essays on the topics covered in the ancient textbook. 

Severus had written back a rather distracted thank-you letter, but she hadn't let him escape her clutches quite so easily. By requesting he comment the read texts to her, Hermione had efficiently ensured that Severus would take up a regular correspondence with her. Although, admittedly, he had complained about the bossy young witch to every person nearby who cared to listen to his grievances, they had soon settled into a comfortable routine of book discussions and random observations about the English weather, the Ministry's incompetence as well as Wizarding society at large. 

Severus had to admit he quite liked corresponding with his erstwhile student. Her wit was sharp, her quill even more so, her observations astute and her humour almost as sordid as his own. 

Therefore, when the witch hunt had begun, it had been a reflex to Owl Hermione to ask for her collaboration. Grabbing ancient and modern texts that might hold the solution to their problem, the pair of them had made it out of _Merlin's Library_ just in time. 

Five minutes later, the Muggle police had surrounded the building and, without so much as a second glance, burnt down the library that contained centuries of magical knowledge. Merlin himself had founded the institution, donating the personal collection of books he had previously kept at his Carmarthen home. Centuries of research, of collecting and of wisdom gone in a single hour of smoke and flames.

Severus shook his head. “How dare they?” 

Hermione opened their eyes. “It's easy, really. Democracy has often functioned this way. Why protect a minority group when you can satisfy the craving of many?”

“I am well aware of that fact. Thank you, Miss Granger, for stating the obvious.”

She blushed. “Considering the technology Muggles have developed these past fifty years and the fact that even Wizarding families like the Weasleys don't even know how to operate a perfectly normal telephone, it shouldn't come as a surprise that Muggles finally found us.”

“Pitchforks and stakes,” he murmured, “it's back to pitchforks and stakes.”

In most parts of the country, it had indeed come down to pitchforks and burnings at the stake for discovered magical folk. Birmingham and York had been rid of wizards before anyone had thought to alert the general Wizarding population. By then, it had been far too late to prevent subsequent killings and media coverage, resulting in similar witch hunts in most European countries. 

Scotland, where Hogwarts stood, had always been a more secluded territory where, like in Wales and Ireland, Muggles were less reluctant to believe in fairies and magic. Therefore, persecutions had been delayed for a few weeks, giving the Hogwarts staff time to prepare their flight. 

Of course not many people had escaped. Muggles were more thorough these days than they had been in the Dark Ages; brooms were easier to spot in the sky and governments communicated. There had been whispers of safe havens in Asia, of liberty in Russia. 

Hermione had agreed with Severus' dry assessment of the situation and his plan to escape to the acres and acres of freedom that lay beyond the Ural mountains. They would first go to Paris to meet Fleur Delacour Weasley's family. Then they would head west, to Berlin, Warsaw, Saint Petersburg and Moscow. Possibly on to Irkutsk and Siberia, even. 

Severus looked out of the window. 

The Eurostar train was rapidly passing by fields, small towns and smaller forests. 

When towns became more and more frequent on the roadside, Severus sighed. 

“We have almost arrived.”

They quickly dressed in their coats, grabbed their suitcases and headed for the nearest exit. A cheerful voice on the loudspeaker resounded in the whole compartment: “ _Bienvenue à Paris. Nous vous souhaitons un agréable séjour._ ”

“We wish you a pleasant stay,” Hermione scoffed. “Whatever you say.”

* * *

Paris had been a disappointment. 

The Delacours no longer lived on Montmartre hill. Upon hearing the first news reports on British witch hunts, they had moved to Cambodia where Fleur's grandfather still owned a colonial villa in Sihanoukville. 

Conveniently located on rue des Abbesses, the Delacour town house had been deserted. Only the wind and a few stray cats still inhabited the high-ceiling kitchen and empty bedrooms. The library however, the library hadn't been touched. 

Each and every book had still been neatly filed away in its place. Each and every scroll had still been intact, theirs for the taking.

“Unless you plan on completely restocking the Hogwarts library, I fail to see the use in carrying around two hundred and fifty seven books, most of them either falling to pieces or completely useless by the looks of it. What is this hare-brained scheme of yours?”

“Herodotus and Homer are not useless. Neither are the travel guides for Eastern Europe–you'll be glad for them once we are in Warsaw and want to eat something other than store-bought bread without drawing too much attention to ourselves. Or have you forgotten it is best not to use our wands?”

She laughed. “Silly me. The great Severus Snape would never forget such a crucial detail.”

Decidedly it was time to change subjects.

“And the Tolstoy?” Severus asked. “ _War and Peace_ and _Anna Karenina_ don't strike me as books likely to move our quest along much further.”

“A little light reading, you bitter old man. A concept I'm quite certain _you_ have never heard of nor could ever fathom.”

“Hand me the Homer then. One of us might get some advance reading done while you peruse your light reading.”

Raising her eyebrows, Hermione handed him the _Iliad_. When she was sure Severus had begun reading, she flipped open _War and Peace_.

* * *

Brussels rushed by. 

So did Cologne. 

Severus didn't quite understand why Hermione insisted on getting up at quarter past six in the morning only to buy atrocious German tea and a silly cinnamon confection called Franzbrötchen at the Hanover train station. However, he didn't complain as much as he would have liked to. Being a fugitive certainly put a damper on one's usual bad humour, he decided.

Chewing his Franzbrötchen, he conceded the sweet confection didn't taste as bad as it smelled. Nevertheless the tea his expert nose had already identified as atrocious when she had carried it into their compartment tasted even worse. To compensate, possibly.

* * *

Berlin's Wizarding library had already been destroyed when they arrived. The city air was crisp and cool, despite it being April. People in raincoats rushed by, and when Severus looked up to the sky, it was indeed cloudy.

Berlin was all it had promised to be. After the Wall had come down, the city had transformed. Gone were the grey, boring days of old. Nowadays, the streets were bustling with students, artists and politicians; the cafés were full and the cultural venues plenty.

After stepping off the train, Severus and Hermione immediately went to Sanssouci Castle in Potsdam. 

Severus had heard rumours the Hohenzollerns had been magical folk, rumours that had been quickly confirmed by Hermione once he mentioned them.

“It is believed that there is a hidden Wizarding part of Sanssouci Castle,” she had explained, ever the know-it all. “Frederick-William IV supposedly had it built upon renovation in 1841 and 1842.” 

Sanssouci Castle hadn't revealed anything of particular interest. 

Having found the Wizarding part of Sanssouci, the British visitors were disappointed it only contained a small library. Nobody had actually inhabited the castle for the better part of a century. This meant the books they found were in a dreadful state. Only four of them had endured the long dry spell of dust and humidity settling over them.

It was Hermione who carefully picked them from their shelf.

“ _About the Ocean_ ,” she read, “by Pytheas.” 

Severus raised his eyebrows. “I thought there was no record of this text having existed.”

“I have only seen references to it in several Roman scrolls and Old English textbooks, where it is said,” Hermione closed her eyes, thinking hard for a moment, “that Pytheas travelled the British Isles and then went to--”

“--Thule,” he completed. 

“Thule,” she confirmed triumphantly.


	3. Warsaw and St Petersburg

_Leningrad – I'm free  
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NneTla5SVFs _  


Research accomplished, they left Berlin on the evening train to Warsaw.

 _About the Ocean_ had been safely stored in Hermione's endless bag. She had kept it for sentimentality's sake after the War, and on days like this it proved to be a very useful tool. 

All other books at Sanssouci Castle had been useless to them – two treatises on agriculture and a collection of what Hermione believed to be nineteenth-century erotica. 

Walking back through the lovely gardens had been a nice way to end the afternoon. Hermione had discovered Severus was a pleasant walking companion. He offered up advice or thoughts when she asked him to but was otherwise mercifully silent. 

Hermione had relished in the beauty of the well-planned, sculpted greenery and breathed in the spring air. She could almost pretend being back at Kensington Gardens for her lunch break, birds singing and playing children laughing on the grass. 

Her reverie had been cut short by Severus' short cough, then their bus ride back to the German capital. They had dined on Currywurst and beer.

“What a strange combination,” Severus had observed. “Not entirely unpleasant, naturally, though I do wonder how the cook thought to combine sausage and tomato sauce with curry powder. If that's what passes for Indian cuisine here, I have no idea how the German people ever had the aspirations to conquer Europe.

“Obviously,” here he had stabbed his Currywurst with a fork, “they are not even capable of producing regular snacks.”

Taking a sip of her beer, she had laughed at his antics.

* * *

“Thule,” he mused. 

“As legendary as Atlantis,” Hermione said. “To be honest, I thought it was as imaginary as Atlantis as well.”

She tapped the ancient cover thoughtfully. 

“Should Thule exist, can we find it?” 

“ _Thule is the outermost of all countries_ ,” she read. “ _It lies where the night is only two or three hours long. In summer, there is no night at all. Close to Thule, the sea resembles sea-lungs._ Sea-lungs is Middle English for jellyfish. _North of Thule, however, the sea is solid as earth, sea and sky all blend together. Not far from this ultimate city in northern direction lies the Cronian Sea._

_“Thule can be reached upon travelling for six days._

“Six days,” he said, “by magical or Muggle means?”

“Pytheas of Massalia was an ancient Greek writer and explorer. Professor Binns always claimed ancient Greek navigators had to be magical to have discovered the Orkneys and Ireland so early.”

“Professor Binns didn't notice his own death, my dear. I doubt we should trust our fate to his ill-conceived history lessons,” Severus said dryly.

* * *

When they reached Poznán at almost half past one in the morning, Hermione had nearly fallen asleep on _About the Ocean_. She shook her head to clear the fogginess from her brain and grabbed her suitcase.

Luckily for her, the night train to Warszawa Centralna was already waiting on track three. While Severus took care of their luggage, Hermione comfortably settled into her bed in the sleep coach.

* * *

Once again she was disturbed in her sleep when the train whistle announced their arrival at Warsaw Central Station. 

“Good morning, sunshine. Rise and shine,” Severus greeted her sarcastically.

She briefly wondered why he was a morning person when she so clearly wasn't. Life simply wasn't fair, especially at six o'clock in the morning.

* * *

For breakfast, they had makowiec, sweet poppy seed cakes, and coffee. Hermione didn't care as long as it was sweet, and Severus seemed to have finally noticed she needed the sugar to awake properly.

They walked around the town in the morning. Truthfully, Warsaw was beautiful, the market square and the presidential palace more so than the financial district. By noon, they had found the Wizarding district. 

It was in a desolate state. Even here, the witch hunt had begun. 

Perhaps Hermione hadn't quite understood what had been going on in Britain when they had left in extremis, but here she was fully and suddenly confronted with the harsh reality of persecution. People whispered in the streets, watching furtively, and quickly disappeared into shady doorways and back alleys. Anything not to be noticed. 

At first, Severus seemed to ignore their stares. Blissfully ignorant, he strode down the narrow cobbled streets as if he had a purpose. 

“Severus,” she tugged on his sleeve. “People are staring.”

“Let them,” he replied tiredly. “We're foreigners, in a district that used to be magical and is now under the control of the Muggle police forces. It is only natural that they should stare at us. We're intruders.

“Did you not notice the looks we got in London? The dark, greasy-haired man with the pretty young woman, carrying two suitcases, of course people wonder.

“Also,” he added, “the general plebs is quite stupid, so what harm is there in letting them think whatever scheme of a brown country mouse's intelligence they can think up?”

Hermione shook her head. It worried her still. 

Weren't there people following them, even?

When she told Severus of her suspicions, he simply shrugged. “They have been following us since Berlin, ever since we had that Currywurst. If they haven't made their move yet, they are clearly either too stupid to independently tie their own shoelaces in the morning–or they are not interested in acting immediately. Either way, Miss Granger, I can assure you we are not in any danger currently.”

After that, the day was quiet. 

They had lunch in a small restaurant near the marketplace. At noon, Varsovians crowded the place and Hermione felt safe. Since the War, she had always felt safer when there were many people present. Severus, however, looked deeply uncomfortable. It might have been the hard chair or the fact that virtually everyone around them spoke Polish. Hermione decided not to enquire. Instead, she chose her dishes with care: Ryba Smażona-fried breaded fish fillet–with potatoes and sauerkraut. While she didn't feel like eating sausage two days in a row, Severus clearly had no such scruples with his choice of sauerkraut and sausage stew. 

The rest of the afternoon was spent in a library that proved to be particularly useless since it didn't have any texts written earlier than 1800 and no texts referencing Thule either.

* * *

Trains from Warsaw to Saint Petersburg weren't expensive, Hermione had discovered. Yet there was one consequential problem: The train ride was _long_. 

Sighing, she settled into the compartment. At least they had enough reading material to pass the time. Pytheas of Massalia proved once again to be a very boring bedtime read, and she fell asleep soon after opening the ancient tome. 

When she opened her eyes again, her companion was already awake. 

“Morning,” she mumbled. 

“Good morning,” he replied. “Slept well?”

To think about it, no, she hadn't. Hermione told him so. “Last night was dreadful.”

“Do I look like I care?” 

But his face showed a rare tenderness and she thought she could even see a hint of caring in his pitch-black eyes. Caring, for her? She decided not to broach the subject.

“What do you think has happened back in Britain?” she whispered. “I know the Weasleys are dead. Bill and Fleur. Charlie. George and Angelina. Ron and Lavender. Ginny might have been abroad with Lucius when the hunt began. And Luna always was observant enough to be prepared for such an unlikely dystopia. Maybe she and Harry escaped. But the others? _What of the others, Severus?_ ”

“Hermione--”

“I know very well what happened.”

“Hermione--”

“They were caught,” she choked out. “Caught.”

“Hermione--”

“They can't be dead. War heroes. We were supposed to live forever. Die in our beds at 180, with our grandchildren surrounding us. Damn it, Severus.”

“I--”

“Damn it, Severus. Why? It just seems so useless, all of it. Senseless, useless, futile, pointless, vain. It's such an utter waste.”

“Hermione--” He put his hand on her forearm. 

“Why?”

“It's not your fault, Hermione.”

Wiping tears from her cheeks, she turned away from him.

Outside, the countryside was speeding by. Wide fields, acres and acres of free land, of green grass and small crippled trees that cowered from the merciless wind. Small towns, rushing by in a swirl of red and grey. Sometimes there were mountains in the distance, dressed in shadows and mist. Hermione saw traditional haystacks illuminated by a gleaming spring sun, meadows decked with the red dots that were small poppies and yellow flowers announcing the summer to come.

* * *

After spending the rest of their journey in silence, reading Tolstoy and Pytheas, Hermione was glad when they finally reached Saint Petersburg the next day.

“In Peter we will pay a visit to a special acquaintance of mine,” Severus had told her. 

Walking the streets of Saint Petersburg, erstwhile Leningrad, Hermione had to concede the city was magnificent. A bit too tall for her tastes, but then again she had never become accustomed to the big city that was London either. Nevskiy Prospect–she had to swallow–was impressive. Next to the tall buildings, hotels, palaces, Hermione felt veritably tiny. 

Palace Square was grand but empty. She saw river Neva, the Trinity Bridge and the Winter Palace with the Hermitage Museum. Only thinking about the innumerable artworks stored there – Van Gogh, Matisse, Kandinsky – made her shiver in excitement. 

Being in a city she had read about so often felt surreal, as if she were encroaching on the Snow Queen's territory, although it was April and the sun was shining. 

Then Severus took a sharp turn into a smaller alley. Suddenly, the buildings looked much less intimidating. To Hermione it felt like being back at Diagon Alley in London, magic pleasantly tingling down her spine.

Russia had its own rules it seemed, and Saint Petersburg was the most Western of Russian cities. It gave her hope, hope beyond the sharp pleasure she gained from the ambient magic and the stuffed pirozhki buns Severus purchased for them from a smiling old lady.

“ _Spasibo_ ,” she smiled at him, her mouth full. “You seem to know this part of town remarkably well.”

“Been here before,” he curtly answered. 

His face was set in grim lines, determination seeping from his pores. He quickly looked into her eyes, then back down to the cobble stone. 

“Come on,” he urged her. 

They weren't far now. She could see that in the way his stride slowed gradually, the way he drew himself to stand very straight and his pursed lips. Then he stood before a brick wall. 

“Hut, O hut, turn your back to the woods, your front to me.”

Hermione gasped.

In the middle of the brick wall, a door appeared. 

The door itself was inconspicuously wooden and brown, with a golden doorknob. 'B.Y.' stood on the sign next to it. 

The woman who opened the door looked equally inconspicuous. Her greying hair hidden beneath a colourful scarf, she was dressed in the ample brown clothing and sensible leather shoes Hermione had always imagined a Russian babushka would wear. The only remarkable thing about her was her pointed nose. 

“ _Zdravstvuyte_ , Severus,” she said. “How nice to see you.”

“ _Privet_ ,” he answered. “May we enter?”

“Certainly,” she said, opening her door wide and gesturing them into the small living room. 

“And your friend here is?”

“Hermione Granger, pleased to meet you,” Hermione said. 

“Wonderful,” the old woman replied. Summoning a bottle of vodka and three glasses, she poured each of them a generous portion. 

“ _Na zdorove_! Cheers, Hermione Granger.” She knocked back her vodka. “I am Baba Yaga.”


	4. From Moscow to Omsk

_Sergej Babkin – Zaberi  
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JX7uWmaix3M _  


“You know _Baba Yaga_? Why didn't you tell me?” Hermione fumed.

“She's an acquaintance from my Death Eater days.”

“And besides, where's her mortar? Flying around on that thing must be worse than a broom, even. And you're damn lucky I'm not an innocent child! What in Merlin's name were you thinking, taking me to drink bloody vodka with Baba Yaga?

“I wasn't even prepared! Can you imagine what could have happened? She could have eaten us–what were you thinking, Severus!”

“Rumour has it visitors to Baba Yaga have to be pure of spirit to succeed. Clearly, that condition isn't necessary true.”

“Considering what? Her Death Eaters allegiance? The fact that she _eats innocent children_? The fact that she used to _live in a house that moved around on chicken legs_? Obviously Baba Yaga is just another damn misunderstood Dark creature if one listens to your blabberings, perfectly safe to be around.”

“I never said she was safe to be around, Miss Granger, did I? Hence I didn't warn you, silly girl.”

“You should have warned me! I just had vodka and tea made from blue roses with Baba Yaga and he sits there contently as he obviously got what he wanted. Oh the cheek of that insufferable man,” she muttered angrily.

* * *

Once again, Severus and Hermione were aboard a train speeding through green countryside. They were going to Moscow. 

After Baba Yaga had confirmed to Severus that Thule lay beyond the snowy mountains of the Ural, the magical travellers had decided to take their chances by taking the Transsiberian Railway down to Irkutsk. Baba Yaga had said that Siberian shamans were rumoured to undertake regular voyages to Thule, and at this point rumours were all they had.

Hermione sighed, leaning her head on the window. 

Russia was beautiful, though she wished her circumstances weren't so desperate. She wished she were travelling with this man in other circumstances, happier days of research and letters and cautious acquaintance perhaps turning into something more from the way his eyes seemed to smile at her when she wasn't looking.

* * *

Moscow was everything it promised to be. Big, loud, busy. Politics were a subject better not broached, she decided. Snape was sure to disagree with her on everything, but she didn't think it mattered. 

The Wizarding district was large, and very similar to Diagon Alley.

Severus led her around expertly. 

“This library is very famous,” he explained. 

“Thule?” she had offered hopefully.

A brief conversation with the librarian revealed that Moscow didn't believe in Thule, apparently, and that everyone was very happy with the current situation. Russia had always been home to many wizards, the line between Muggles and magical folk blurring in the process, and witch hunts being a foreign concept to them.

“Watch out,” Severus whispered. “Simply because he does not care about politics, he won't save our lives. Quite on the contrary, he would be very happy to collaborate with any witch hunters he might encounter, the blabbering idiot.”

Hermione nervously looked over her shoulder.

The alley was full of people, bustling with activity, not all light, and it was very difficult to see faces. At one moment, she could have sworn she saw Viktor Krum head into the Quidditch shop, his beard long and his face more handsome than the Viktor she recalled. 

“Don't dawdle and stare. Elementary, my dear Hermione.” 

“But, Viktor--” she made to follow the Bulgarian wizard into the shop.

“Don't,” Severus said sharply. “Who knows what he has been up to these past few months? Do you really want to risk my life–and yours, but then I don't really care–for a love long gone? For a boy handsome once upon a time, a Quidditch idiot whose fame has been quite detrimental to his health?”

* * *

In the end, she listened to him. She found she always did so instinctively, even after all these years. 

“What does that say about us?” she mused.

“The fact that we travel? That we're not insane enough to stay around long enough to be burned in a _panem et circensis_ event.”

Hermione decided to let it go. “I still wonder how it all happened. Everything seemed to happen at once, then we were fleeing from _Merlin's_. Afterwards, it's all a blur. On a train, going nowhere, searching no one, fearing all.”

“Yearning for Thule,” he added. 

“Yearning for a place we don't know exists,” she corrected, but her voice held no sting. 

“ _By a route obscure and lonely, haunted by ill angels only…_ ”

Drinking tea and quoting Poe in a bar in Moscow's city centre was a strange occurrence, Hermione thought. Sitting there with her erstwhile bitter Potion's Master–and actually enjoying it–was even stranger an occurrence. 

“The tea is delicious,” she remarked. “Almost like English tea in its refinement.”

“Yet this is even more refined than English tea,” Severus smirked when two glasses filled with a translucent liquid appeared on their table. “And much more effective than common Firewhisky.” 

“Vodka?” Hermione raised her eyebrows. “Are you sure you're not an alcoholic at heart?”

“I'm a Russian at heart, darling, there is a difference.” 

He had called her darling. 

He was clearly being sarcastic. Or was he? 

Deciding to forestall any reaction, she gulped down her glass of vodka. Feeling the liquid burn its icy way down her throat, she shivered delicately. This was to Firewhisky what fish and chips was to mundane sandwiches, what books were to Quidditch, what a blazing fire was to cooling ashes. If this was what made Severus quintessentially Russian at heart, she mused, she was in danger of becoming an expatriate herself. 

Second glasses appeared, then third, as translucently alluring as the first, and they drank eagerly.

Music began blaring loudly behind them and tables were cleared to make room for a small dance floor. A man started to sing, compelling and slow, a tune that spoke to them like the vodka had. Hermione swayed to the music.

She wasn't sure how she had ended up in Severus' arms, but it felt all right, although her head was swimming and her feet still swaying to the music.

* * *

The next morning found them in the train to Omsk. 

Hermione was thoroughly glad the distance between Moscow and their next destination was long enough that she could pretend to sleep for a while as she tried to make sense of what had happened. 

Her head was fuzzy and her legs still didn't feel quite right, but she was beginning to see the inherent logic in what had happened the previous night. She had been drunk. He had been drunk. They were both alone, travelling alongside each other for quite a long time. And they were in a constant state of desperation. 

The evening had been wonderful. Tea had turned into vodka, vodka had turned into dancing. Who knew Severus could dance the tango so well?

Severus.

She opened her eyes and looked at the sleeping man. Somehow he had made her forget the danger they were facing, their search for Thule, her worries.

* * *

Omsk was like Moscow, only smaller. The town felt grey to Hermione.

“It is grey,” Severus agreed. “Hopefully it will prove useful to our quest.”

Once again, the library was no use. Thule was fairy tales and children's games, the owner had said, smiling at the strange foreigners' naïveté. 

“Yet,” Severus said, “he gave us one valuable piece of information. There is a famous _volkh_ who lives in Omsk. He might be able to help us out.”

Hermione sighed. Then she hummed in agreement.

It seemed they were growing weary of this search, of fleeing England's witch hunters that were looking to haunt them. Spectres in their minds weighed down on them. 

“It is tiresome,” she said. “They should have one central Wizarding library, like _Merlin's_ in London or _Morgaine's_ in Brittany. Where is one to find books for research?”

“No books,” Severus grinned. “A man. A sorcerer prophet.” 

“A prophet? If it was spluttering nonsense that you wanted, we could have gone to Delphi!”

“Greece is overrun with tourists at this time of year?” he offered. 

“Insufferable man.”

“Know-it-all.”

“I'll return that compliment,” Hermione smiled. 

“Compliment well received, thank you ever so much. And here we are.”

Cautiously, she opened the door, peering inside.

Inside, the room was filled with dusty bookshelves and comfortable-looking chairs. The floor was covered in a thick fur rug of all colours.

“Do not touch the rug with bare skin,” Severus whispered in her ear. “It is made from magical animals' fur, and very powerful.” 

“Hello?” a foreign voice asked.

A man stepped into the room. He wasn't tall, nor short, nor particularly fat. In fact, the most remarkable thing about him was that he was quite unremarkable. 

“Privet,” Hermione said.

“Enter, you who come searching,” the strange man said. “Enter, you who come searching, and you might find what you need.”

They were ushered in and seated in the chairs that were as comfortable as they had looked. 

Hermione longed to take off her shoes and bury her naked toes in the thick fur of the rug. Her fingers itched to untie her shoelaces, but she recalled Severus' words and resolutely settled into the chair. 

“You who come searching…” the man mused. “What are you running from, I wonder?”

“We are refugees,” Severus said curtly. “From England.” 

“England. This is not your country, refugees, this city is full of spies and Western influences and pale imitations of Moscow life. For you must go West to Siberia, you who search.”

“Will we there find what we are looking for?”

“You shall find solace there.”

“Thule,” Hermione murmured.

“You shall find a place beyond space and time, beyond your wildest dreams, beyond your feeble Western imaginations. A place of wonders and love. Seek, and you shall find.” 

“Thank you,” Severus got up.

“I'm afraid we must leave,” Hermione said as she stood. “ Thank you for your help.”

“It was my pleasure,” the man replied. 

He held out his hand in goodbye greeting. Severus, then Hermione shook it. Both thought they felt a sharp spike of pain shoot through their bodies as their hands met the sorcerer's. 

As they turned to leave, Hermione fancied she saw blood dripping from the strange prophet's hand onto the fur rug, and she could have sworn the rug shuddered like a cat caressed and let out a low purr of appreciation.


	5. Eastbound

_Miaskovsky - Sonata for cello and piano No 2  
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8gKaEbksftg _  


“About as useful as Trelawney and as lunatic as Xenophilius Lovegood,” Severus commented as they boarded the Transsiberian again.

Night was falling. Omsk bathed in dusk was a pretty sight speeding by the windows, city buildings, suburbs, fields, then open countryside, empty and dark in the Siberian night. 

“That was not very helpful,” Hermione agreed. “Did you see that wonderful rug of his, though? It purred when we left.”

“Indeed,” Severus said. “What an absolutely charming rug for such a welcoming lunatic.”

“He fed it our blood.”

“I told you it was made of magical animals' fur, didn't I? These rugs are about as rare as your precious Mr Potter's Invisibility Cloak or that ring the old fool Dumbledore insisted on pushing onto his finger without consulting anyone.”

“The rug ate out blood,” she whispered. “Blood magic is very powerful.”

“It is indeed. That _charming_ rug fed off our fear and pain.”

He opened the _Iliad_ again, settling into the seat as best he could, and proceeded to ignore Hermione entirely.

* * *

Novosibirsk was uneventful. 

They had blini pancakes in a small restaurant and listened to a concert of classical music while drinking tea. 

Nobody spoke of Moscow evenings, tea and vodka.

Nobody spoke of drunk nights, of a woman's body in a man's arms and of sharing body heat.

But their smiles grew wider and their feet almost touched under the table.

* * *

In Krasnoyarsk, they only got off the train to buy a scarf for Hermione. 

Although April had turned into May, early mornings and evenings were chilly still. The new scarf was colourful, made of an iridescent silk that shimmered in all colours of the rainbow even in dim light. It was soft to the touch, long enough to completely wrap a full head of impossible curls in, and Hermione fell in love with it instantly. She curled into her seat, the scarf warm around her neck and sighed in contentment.

Severus only raised an amused eyebrow at her antics, but resisted the urge to comment.

Securely wrapped in her new scarf, Hermione appreciated sitting by the open train window to see the sun rise and illuminate the countryside in red and gold and violet and silver. 

Sometimes she would sneak a glance at Severus, who was still sleeping peacefully in his bed next to hers. His face looked relaxed in his slumber, almost innocent in the way his hair fell into his eyes and his chest heaved with breath that would not be used to spew venom against the world in general and her in particular on bad days. 

The morning after they had left Krasnoyarsk, Hermione even dared touch his cheek with her fingertips, her caress as light as a feather in a summer breeze and gone as quickly.

* * *

Irkutsk was a place of wonders, Hermione thought as she looked at the crowded Wizarding street so unlike any other she had seen recently. 

The street was light, the atmosphere cheerful, and she could hear children playing in the distance. 

“How adorable,” she said out loud.

“Isn't it just?” Severus agreed cynically. 

When they turned into the less crowded part of the Wizarding district, the houses became smaller and chatter became fewer. The library, though, was wonderful. And indeed, they found a book on Thule.

“Thule is legendary,” the library assistant, whose name tag proclaimed him to be Misha, enthused. “I'm sure that this is just the book for you.”

Hermione didn't dare to smile–the news were too good to be true, almost. After months of searching and fleeing from her native country, abandoning her remaining friends to their fate and leaving behind nothing but sadness for those already gone, it seemed almost incredible that they should have found what they were looking for.

Looking at Severus, she saw that he, too, tried to rein in his joy beneath his usual stern exterior.

But he didn't have it in him to curse at Misha or to insult his ancestry, furniture and choice of clothing.

“This is it,” she said, as calmly as she could manage. 

“Yes,” he agreed. 

A delighted smirk was beginning to form on his face when he grabbed the carefully-wrapped book to put it in her endless bag.

They thanked Misha, not enough to make him wonder at their true motivations of course, and left the library. On the street, Hermione's face broke out into a wide grin.

“This is it,” she repeated, and held tightly on to her bag.

“Yes, yes. Do please calm down, Miss Granger. This is not the appropriate place or time to get as giddy as a Hogwarts Fifth year on Valentine's Day, I assure you.”

His comment could not stop her from feeling enormous relief, though her smile grew a bit more subdued. They silently walked on through the busy streets back to the train station. 

Books were best read on trains, they had found. After weeks of travelling, Severus and Hermione had become quite accustomed to reading aloud to one another while watching the plains and mountains of Russia rushing by the window. They sat on their eastbound train–East, always East–and waited until the train left Irkutsk station. 

“We found it,” she said, her eyes full of wonder.

Severus opened the book and began to read: “ _But to go beyond the Ripaean Mountains is indeed to go to Thule; to go to an ultimate dim Thule is to go where all discord and sorrows are unknown._

_“In Thule lives the race of Hyperboreans. They live to an extremely old age and leap off a sacred rock into the ether when they have lived a full and joyous life._

_“Time is of no essence there, it has no hold over Thule's inhabitants. Upon midsummer, the sun rises. Upon midwinter, it sets._ ”

“There is hope,” Hermione said. “Hyperboreans sound like Wizards, or at least somewhat human magical creatures.”

And she took his hand in her tiny one, and held it there. 

Her face was joyous, but her eyes were carefully guarded.

His eyes, too, were guarded as he looked upon their joined hands. Then, slowly, deliberately, his thumb began to stroke her fingers in the most tentative of caresses. She smiled at him.


	6. Epilogue

_Shanghai Restoration Project – Babylon of the Orient  
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hj1q8bqlLtg _  


Yet, for all their joy, there was no indication to where the Hyperboreans could be found. Thule remained a dream.

Severus had ranted at Misha the library assistant. “Misha, what a stupid name for a stupider man who clearly does not have the brains of the bear he was named for. Even Russian bears are less idiotic as that dunderhead who could only compete with the likes of Neville Longbottom for the Order of the Most Ill-Fated Son of a Spider and a Pigeon who happened to cross my path.”

So they had continued on to Ulan-Bator, had boarded a train to Beijing.

All the while, their hands remained joined. 

It was in Beijing amidst glaring lights and the smell of frying grease and soy sauce that Hermione had first gathered the courage to press her lips to Severus' in a dry, close-mouthed kiss. In that moment, it had become clear to them that their travels had been more than a search for solace, for the distant dream of freedom and Thule, but also of themselves and each other. 

Maybe they would not like what they found along the way, but the endless nights on the Transsiberian had taught them patience and fear had taught them caution. 

“This might have been what the fur rug meant when it purred,” Hermione said thoughtfully, stirring her noodles. 

Absent-mindedly, Severus nodded. 

“It might have meant unrealised potential and Thule to discover within,” she murmured. 

“I'm not giving up on Thule,” Severus said firmly. 

“We will keep searching,” she agreed and squeezed his hand tightly. 

Their travels had brought them to strange places, but this was stranger still, this quiet companionship that had grown between them on white Russian nights, vodka and storm-ridden plains. 

Yet again, they boarded a train that night.

* * *

Hermione heard the clean whistle that indicated their train had arrived at Lhasa. A little worse for wear, a little weary, but she wasn't ready to give up yet. If they didn't find what they needed in Lhasa, they would simply continue on to Hanoi and Saigon, to the dark alleys of Bangkok and the mysterious waters of Singapore.

But first, Hermione thought as she descended from the train, first there was Lhasa to explore. And with that final thought, she resolutely breathed in Tibetan air and looked up at Severus.

“Let's go.”

**Author's Note:**

> And that's it! I hope you enjoyed the journey.
> 
> No books were harmed in the production of this piece. Every book mentioned exists, except for About the Ocean, which, however, is rumored to have existed. Quotes from that book are of my own invention. Places, food and folk tale creatures mentioned in this story also all exist, as do the train connections, cities and beautiful landscapes. The departure and arrival times of SSHG's trains reflect actual departure and arrival times from 2012. If you're interested in finding out more about the Transsiberian Railway, I encourage you to seek it online; there are lovely pictures and videos of the journey available. Oh, and the purring bloodthirsty rug is all mine.
> 
> As promised:
> 
>  **Original Prompt by citrinestone:** 1)Muggles have discovered how to tell if a person is magical. Witch hunters hunt them down. Wizard communities have been destroyed in Europe. The ones that have survived have fled to other countries. HG/SS travel on the Trans-Siberian Railway to escape and hope to find others like them. Who do they meet along the way? How do they keep their magic concealed? Will they reunite with any familiar people? Do they have a destination? How can a witch hunter detect them? Do they ever make their destination?


End file.
